Courting Disaster

Dracula

�It is time for us to return.�

She receded silently at these words, inching nearer the window.  Her face was turned away, her gaze intent on the Mediterranean.  It was still that night, an ominous stretch of black velvet.  There were no ships to stir its soundless tranquility, no moon to reflect off its surface.  Her eyes were distant, pensive. 

�Kelantha,� I said softly, my hand closing over hers in attempt to reclaim her.  There were numerous phrases I might have added during her prolonged silence, but I said none of them, waiting for the response that came at length.

�Why must we go?�

It puzzled me, her lucidly calm tone, her abstracted gaze, her nearly oblivious air.  �That is a rather curious question to be put by you, my lovely one. I imagined you would wish it.�

�No, not yet,� she rejoined.  Again she turned to the window, and there our discourse would have ended, for she seemed to have no intention of conversing further.

�It would be better if we returned; you are not yourself.�

�I am sorry you think so,� she answered, a certain injured pride in her voice that I found perfectly infuriating.  This was not ignorance; it was damnably willful ignorance.  She would not play out this farce, not with me.

�Do not trifle with me, Kelantha. Do not court that disaster. It is for your own sake that I retain my insistence, for your condition. If you were brought to reason you would recognize this.�

�My condition!� she cried in dour accents, �Were I brought to reason, I should tell you that you know nothing of my condition. Do not presume to inform me of something only I can be aware of.�

�Are you aware? Would you consider this usual�this passive rejection of your true nature?�

Her look was defensive; she said nothing but continued to stare, dark eyes fastened on me with equal amounts of anger and resentment.  No tinge of blue tainted them; they remained purely dark, purely her own. 

�How do you feel, Kelantha?� I asked her sharply.

She looked taken aback; she closed her eyes once before answering.  �Cold.�

I gave a small nod of affirmation.  �The coldness is not new, but its aggravation is.�

�Yes,� she said simply, the harsh light in her eyes replaced with deep weariness.

I formed my words carefully, keeping my voice low.  �You know we must return.�

�There is no warmth there.�  She sighed.  �I am so cold.�

�There are some forces of greater importance.�

�But I wish to stay, and I do not see what could be of greater importance�or how my condition could concern you so much.�  She articulated her words indignantly, turning back to stare at the glassy sea.

�This is childish and unworthy of you,� I said tonelessly, sensing my rising anger and my lack of resistance to its potency.

�And you are being cruel, an unnecessary nuisance,� she spat spitefully.

�It is cruel, is it not,� I said stonily, sitting so perfectly still that I myself might have been stone.  �But what would you know of that? What would you know of cruelty, of waiting endlessly through centuries and yielding to suffering for the sake of something greater than yourself?�

Kelantha let out an inarticulate cry of frustration as she turned to me.  �What do you mean by such a thing?�

�What do I mean? What do I mean, you ridiculous child? Do you know nothing? Have you understood nothing? I have every right to insist upon our removal from this place, to be wary of your behavior and take every unnecessary precaution. I have waited too long for this. I do not want my son born in a rented villa on a seaport!�

The words took effect as soon as I pronounced them.  Kelantha fell back upon the cushioned seat, stunned, her eyes fixed on me in an expression of wordless, astonished disbelief.  It was more than disbelief, but the emotion I saw reflected there, staring back at me more coldly and harshly than any searing light, was such that I could not bring myself to acknowledge it.  I knew what it was; I saw it plainly; and I would not identify it.  I would not connect it with that which I had cherished for so long.  I left the window, left the villa instantly, before I would be forced to watch that dreaded sentiment spill out in liquid form from her eyes. 

Initially I had no direction as to which path I took; but my anger had manifested itself and transformed me into an inhuman shape, an ungodly, unnatural creature.  I found myself pursuing a course I recognized, arriving at the well-tended garden that had been so filled with laughter only hours before, not hesitating a moment as I came upon the bent figure near the rosebushes. 

Do not smoke in the house, she had told him.  Do not wave around your disgusting cigar like a perfumed wand.  I read his thoughts in his eyes as they widened in horror, saw the image of his wife ushering him outside good-naturedly as it replayed in his mind, the even greater horror that strangled him as he desperately tormented himself with the useless question: what would befall them after his death?  The thought alone would force his heart to break; I would spare him and grant him a quicker end, one that was not racked with guilt and sorrow.  He was affluent, but I would not hold it against him.  Death allowed everyone the equality and ease that Life withheld; for, after all, a throat is easily torn whether it is graced with gems or the meanest rag. 

That last image that filled his mind as his life poured out of him was that of the child�the small girl I had seen Kelantha watch so curiously, who had looked up at me with eyes both insightful and guileless.  He relinquished his life with a sigh that shook his entire frame, turning his face into the ground, staining the fallen rose petals a deep shade of crimson.

She was standing before me, a bright-eyed, barefoot child, shivering in her thin nightgown.  She noticed not the bloodied form of her father, but her countenance was troubled with what I knew would be the first of many restless nights filled with waking dreams�dreams that drew her to the garden from whence they emerged.  She approached me slowly, her movements befitting one who acted not upon impulse but upon instinct.  The beast crouched before her, its fur matted with blood, its eyes narrowed into slits, struck no chord of terror within her.  I watched her steadily as her diminutive feet stumbled across the lifeless body, prompting her to fall abruptly to the ground.  It was then she saw him, saw the unsightly gash where his throat had been.  In another moment there were stains; she was a small, huddled mass of crimson and gold, her childish curls a stark contrast against the bloodied prints on her hands and gown.  She then proceeded not to cry, not to scream, but to lift herself off the ground and placidly return to her room, with one backward glance at the gate as I slipped through it.

In the morning the bloody footprints in the hall would be discovered; the sheets and nightgown would be disposed of; and the little house with the picturesque garden would be shut up, never again to be visited by the family, though the child would relive the experience nightly�and, I concluded with no small degree of certainty, she would find her mother had developed a most irrational fear of wolves.

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